John probably should have recognized that colour as soon as he set foot in the house, but he didn't. Ever hopeful that Sherlock wouldn't go back to drugs. (It also didn't help that he'd paled under their influence.)
He was mostly too angry at Sherlock for doing that, and couldn't ask about anything else. Of course, then he ended up at the flat with the drugs busting gang and Mycroft, then all hell sort of broke loose, Sherlock attacking his brother with flares of red, and John was seriously concerned.
Later there was a man who John immediately loathed. Everything else that came after was just proving his point. But he was black. John had never seen anyone so dark before. It left him uneasy for the rest of the day, until of course, that night, when Sherlock dragged him off to break into the man's office.
It was all a bit of a blur, except for the part where he found Magnussen and Sherlock both lying on the floor, Magnussen's blackness still present, no dimmer than before, but Sherlock... Sherlock was fading. Because he'd been shot. As the blood left his veins, the colour left his body, and John couldn't bear to see that happen.
"Jesus Sherlock," he muttered, pressing down on the wound.
"Emergency, which service do you require?"
The ambulance took far too long to get there. Even on the way to the hospital, with medical interventions, fluid forced into his veins, an oxygen mask on his face, the colour was still leaching out of Sherlock. Like it should have when he died the first time. No, he didn't die then and sure as hell isn't going to die now.
"Sherlock. We're losing you. Sherlock!"
Don't fade on me now. I don't think I could bear it.
He was still pale when they made it to the hospital, but pale was better than blank.
They took him away, speaking of surgery and blood typing, and John could only wonder if he'd ever see that bright violet shade again.
And of course he did. Of course. Even though he'd been told that for a moment, one long, earth shattering moment, Sherlock had faded completely, he'd come back.
Not as strong as before, but John was confident he'd get there. Had to be; after losing him once, he didn't think he could bear it ever again.
But then he brought Lestrade to see his violet man, and he was nowhere to be found. Typical, really.
There was a search and a phone call, and John found himself pretending to be Sherlock in a house that wasn't a house.
And then there was Mary. The things she said... the things she'd done.
It was the murky pink. The combination of that and the orange was what made Mary peach. He didn't know how he could have missed it.
Love, perhaps.
That would have done it.
In the end, John finally forgave her. Because despite the pink, she was still orange on top, and that's all that John needed.
After all, who was he to judge?
He still had a spot of violet nestled next to his heart from a certain someone.
